


Here Be Dragons

by melodious_rain



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragonborn!John, Gen, Jarl!Mycroft, M/M, Mage!Sherlock, Skyrim AU, Skyrim Crossover, dragon fights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodious_rain/pseuds/melodious_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do not meddle lightly in the affairs of dragons - for thou art crunchy and tasteth good with katsup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light Armor

**Author's Note:**

> A little gem I dug up from my save files...

 

The inn was abuzz with gossip and rumors to-night. While the rain poured down on the tiny village, many sought refuge in the tavern in the center of towne. It was cold this season, and many areas saw snow in the mountainous region of Skyrim. Rivers were cold, and so was Riverwood, as chill from the upcoming winter seeped through their autumn.

 

A gravelly voice could be heard across the room to the bar. A grizzled drunk weaved a tale many did not spare a thought to, due to the mouth from which it spilled from.

 

"It was huge, with a wingspan o' two buildings. I could feel the 'eat comin off it, I swear it could breathe fire. I thank the Gods it decided it didn't wan'ta give roast Nord a try!" He and the other drunks chortled at the outlandish tale. No one bothered cry false because no one took him seriously.

 

"So where was this _dragon_ headed?" called out another inn goer.

 

The chuffed drunkard proclaimed, "It was 'eaded south, I swear. Saw it with me own eyes."

 

One man seated at the bar, as far away from the jesting drinkers who surrounded the hearth, took another swig of his draft. The barkeep was ignoring the conversation just as well as the man at the bar was. As the bearded barkeep ran a flannel over the counter, he eyed his silent customer from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

 

"Where did ya say you'd just traveled from?" the keep asked.

 

The customer didn't even raise his fair head. "Helgen."

 

"Ya know..." the keep began, "there be rumors goin around sayin Helgen was just attacked..." he trailed off, watching the customer knock back the rest of his drink. "And I was just wonderin if ya knew anything about that. You know, to put the rumors to bed an' all."

 

But the Nord didn't answer, only left a handful of gold pieces on the counter, took up his big, rusted sword and threadbare coat, and left. Day was on the verge of breaking, and the traveler stopped by the river to scrub his face and hands clean. He wore light, salvaged armor that he'd come upon by chance and had barely any money to his name.

 

But there was a dead king, a war to fight, a regime to collapse, and dragons of legend had appeared once more. The traveler who went by John Watson was on a schedule, and he needed to travel to Whiterun quickly. He had no time to waste.

 

Before he left, he took from his knapsack an artifact of gold, holding it up to the burgeoning sunlight to inspect it. Whether out of greed or suspicion, he knew not, but he decided to keep the mysterious key. The smarmy shopkeep Wilkes could do without the trinket until John decided its usefulness. If it was just a bit of treasure, John would return it. If it was a key to something more, he'd keep it until its usefulness ran out.

 

Tucking away his spoils and trying to look as unassuming as possible, he set upon his journey northwest to Whiterun.

 

Once there, after being hassled by a few gatekeepers, he spoke with a blacksmith and sold some of his unneeded loot  for a few coin. He took the time to visit the markets briefly, glad to find an apothecary shop to purchase a few potions. He'd felt a little sick after fending off a wolf, and he many people he passed remarked on him not looking well. People of this towne seemed rather.... chatty.

 

Finally, his back aching from the weight of his knapsack, he lurched up the stone steps to Dragonsreach, where the leader of the city lived, overlooking all his land. Cursing the heavy stone in his bag, John took a quick rest at the top of the stairs, where a guard decided to scoff at him. His limp was rather obvious and he'd had yet to find himself a suitable walking stick. With all the fleeing he'd seemed to be doing, he'd had little time to do anything else. The sooner he found a scholar to take the stone, the sooner this would all be over with.

 

He once again argued with a guard, insisting he had important news for the Jarl of Whiterun. It was concerning Helgen, and must be heard by his own ears. He was lead in by a guard and the Jarl's housecarl, a lovely Imperial woman engrossed in a notebook. John smiled at her, attempted to make conversation, but gave up after the lady more or less completely ignored him.

 

The Jarl was summoned and he regarded John from his throne, looking down on the Nord with impatience. "Well then, you've traveled all this way, sir. What news have you?"

 

John cleared his throat. "News of Helgen, sire. It has been attacked by a dragon."

 

The Jarl was a tall, thin man, perhaps of Imperial descent, with a beakish nose and strangely ginger hair. He scoffed at the idea as if it were preposterous. "That's quite impossible, my good man." His air of superiority was a bit annoying, if threatening. However, John had fought much worse than a great politician, and he wouldn't be cowed so easily.  

 

"I saw it with my own eyes," John defended evenly. He had no reason worry about not being taken seriously. If they didn't now, they would at least soon enough.

 

At the talk of dragons, a cloaked figure had emerged from a side room to listen in. Such curious things were going on in the realm, it was difficult to stay locked up away from it.

 

 "Really, now? However did you escape with your life?" wondered the imperious Jarl.

 

The wearied traveler's patience was growing thin. "Right as the dragon appeared, which I admit I saw at a bit of an odd angle..."

 

"Odd angle?"

 

"Yeah, from an Imperial chopping block," explained the wanderer casually. "I escaped with another prisoner and we fled the to the woods. His name was William Murray, if you wanted to call him up for a chat too."

 

There was a scoff off to the side from the cloaked listener, drawing the attention of both the Jarl and his visitor.

 

The Jarl seemed impatient. "Yes, Sherlock, what is it?"

 

The cloaked man ignored the Jarl and instead spoke to the wanderer.  His voice was low, and while quiet, it resonated against the stone walls with a booming quality. "Come to Dragonsreach to discuss the ongoing hostilities... Like the rest of the _great warriors?_ " He spat the words as if being a 'great warrior' was a greater insult.

 

John glanced at the Jarl and back in confusion. Who was this? Did he dare speak to such a rude person, who had the gall to interrupt a Jarl's conversation?

 

But the man took his pause as permission to go on. "I see you once took an arrow to the shoulder. Could be worse. Seems as though everyone around here has taken one to the knee," he went on, seemingly going down a list. "You're also most likely the shortest Nord I've ever seen, not a conventional soldier, however your calluses and scars say otherwise. How strange that an adventurer such as yourself would have so few marks from encounters with animals, yet so many apparently from man-made weapons. You've likely been in battle, probably many of them, which leaves one question:"

 

John, frazzled, waited in bewilderment.

 

"Imperials, or Stormcloak?" asked the mysterious intruder called Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

[The Tumblr Post](http://the-unfinished-melody.tumblr.com/post/104599626638/sherlock-skyrim-au-sherlock-breton-mycroft)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to have this stand alone, but might be amenable to expanding it a bit?


	2. Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragon attack on Whiterun. Reveal of the Dragonborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, ya'll talked me into it.

  _Imperials, or Stormcloak?_

* * *

 

 

John Watson stammered at the sudden question, ruffled and confused and maybe a little amazed. "I-I- neither," he blurted.

Sherlock only quirked his mouth to the side in a way that told John he hadn't convinced the cloaked man. Dread filled John when the other opened his mouth to speak, but before sound could pass his cupid lips, a great clamor rose in the entryway of the foyer. As John turned to look, the heavy door was shoved open and several guards came stumbling in.

"What's the meaning of this?" called the Jarl with commanding quality.

A lone woman stepped forward, clinking in armor, and removed her helmet. She had a mass of coiling black hair held back by a tie. Her face was grim as she addressed her Jarl in an urgent tone. "My liege! There's something attacking our southwest watch tower."

"What is it, Sergeant?" prompted the impatient Jarl, "Who reported it?"

"Giants?"

John glanced over his shoulder at the cloaked man, who had folded his arms within the sleeves of his robe. The man met his eyes and raised a bored eyebrow.

John muttered a curse and dropped his heavy knapsack corner of a heavy table. No, it wasn't giants. John wished it would be giants. By the time the Sergeant had answered the Jarl, John had already dropped the heavy stone tablet on table and hitched his sack back over his shoulder.

The woman's voice was clear and echoed throughout the halls.

"One of my guards, from patrol. He said... he said it was a _dragon._ "

The weight of that statement froze everyone in their tracks for a moment. John tested the string on his bow, ensuring it was in good condition for a long fight. With fierce determination he leveled a look at the Jarl. He had enough arrows for now, but not much could be done for his armor.

"Well, what do we do?"

"We fight it of course!"

"What if it breathes fire?"

"We must prevent it from attacking Whiterun."

As the guards and soldiers bickered and called out, John marched with a measured pace through the throng.

"Where do you think _you're_ going?"

John turned back and found the cloaked man - Sherlock - to be the one calling after him. The room hardly fell silent, and so John called out over the noise, "Someone with _some_ experience has to help!" And with little more than scavenged arms and armor, John charged out the door and down the steps into the panicked town.

* * *

 

"Brother, I do believe this is -"

"Yes, it is."

"I will look into it."

"Where are you going?"

"Off to study."

* * *

 

Outside the gates, a loud, bone-rattling roar made it apparent which direction John ought to go. He noticed a tangent of guards with swords, shields and torches making their way towards the sound. John hastily joined them, offering them support which they easily agreed to. Many of them were scared, unwilling to go up against such an unknown and terrifying foe. John did his part in urging them on, and finally the watch tower was in sight.

Overhead, a dark shadow streaked across the starry sky, shrieking as it went. It felt like the air was sucked out from all their lungs in the massive updraft caused by the dragons wings. With malicious reptilian grace, the massive creature perched on the yonder tower, massive claws digging into the stone. Arrows glanced off its scaled hide and the beast roared, and the men around John covered their ears in shock. Many screamed.

Then the serpent spat flame at the guards on the ground.

"Well _that's_ not something you see every day," commented a bland voice.

John looked up at the figure perched upon the rock he and the other guards were taking cover behind. It was Sherlock, who idly scratched a stick of charcoal on the page of the book in his lap. What in the name of Kyne was this pup _doing?_

Metal boots clomped behind them, and the female Sergeant from earlier burst into the scene with a platoon of guards behind her. "Stendarr preserve us!" she exclaimed at the sight of the dragon. With a mighty beat of its wings, it took to the sky again. "And you!" she barked, "What are you doing here, you damned freak!"

Sherlock, the recipient of this abuse, didn't bat an eyelash. "Ah, Sergeant Donovan. I see you finally made it."

An echoing roar resonated back to their position, and John took a moment to study the dragon. It wasn't the same as the one that had attacked Helgen, that much he knew. The wings were different, and this one had fewer spikes and spines, he supposed. And it wasn't black. But, it was heading straight for them.

"Gods' blood!" John hissed, reaching up and yanking the poised Sherlock off his perch. With an indignant cry, the young man found himself in an undignified lump in the dirt. The dragon passed overhead with a heart-stuttering rumble. Sherlock stared up in awe, while John jumped into action.

In proper form and unerring precision, the stocky Nord released three arrows in under five seconds. The dragon gave a shriek when each one embedded themselves in its hide. The creature smoothly doubled back and headed toward them. The men around him all spread out, finding cover. Arrows flew in all directions, shouts from men and dragon alike rising in a wave as the panic grew. John kept his bow steady, another arrow already ready, and waited for the beast to come within range.

John managed another half dozen shots before the massive serpent touched down with enough force to send the ground rocking. Stumbling, John hastily put away his bow. The dragon had managed to single him out, though nearly two dozen guards were shooting and slashing at him. Cold eyes bored into him, and something rumbled up in the dragons throat. Realization striking him, John ducked and rolled just in time to miss a bought of flames pointed in his direction.

A deep shout let him know not everyone had escaped the plume of fire unharmed. Unable to worry about that now, John hefted his heavy great sword in his grip. It was cold in his hands, and shimmered faintly with enchantment. With a mighty heave, he slashed the dragon cleanly across the scaled face. It reared back and spat fire, but John ducked low and made for its throat. He could tell its vitality was waning, against all odds, they were winning. Arrows continued to barrage the creature and it made an stuttering attempt to fly to safety.

It nearly got airborne, but John clung onto a spine tightly as it lifted off the ground. With strength he wasn't aware he possessed, he swung himself up and over, landing on the dragon's shoulders. The beast shrieked in indignation, or perhaps desperation, and John brought his sword up to drive it down into the dragon's skull. A choked off cry and they both went tumbling, John finding himself in ignominious position: face down in the dirt.

Coughing and sputtering, he pushed himself up and blearily looked around. Fires roared and spat all around the tower, which had taken such a beating that it looked more like a ruin. Tentative helmed heads were appearing from behind rocks and cover, and the field had been consumed with almost a stunned silence.

"You _killed_ it," someone said.

John's head swiveled, confused as if this had just occurred to him. He _had_ just killed a dragon. A murmuring rose up, but it was swiftly silenced with an even more astonishing sight: the body of the dragon. Before their eyes, the scale and flesh of the massive reptile crackled and smoldered as if ash, flaking off the massive skeleton in just a matter of seconds.

But that wasn't the most astonishing part: a surge of _essence_ leapt from the corpse and funneled like a torrential whirlwind straight into John. A cry of alarm rose from the spectators and John himself stumbled back, pulse hammering with adrenaline, staring down at his hands which seemed to glow. It was as if he was _absorbing_ the wispy white light which surged toward him violently as if it were the dragon's last attempt to harm him.

When the last of the light faded, John and everybody else held their breath and waited for the last blow. Whatever poison or curse which was suddenly laid upon their poor, unexpected savior would most assuredly take him quickly...

" _Interesting._ "

John breathed. And whirled around to face the owner of that deep, reverent voice. Sherlock, sporting singed robes and cradling his left hand to his chest. There was a gleam in those pale eyes that was nothing sort of manic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so... I don't like posting things that I haven't "completed." And seeing as I decided to extend this after posting it, it means I am.... unprepared. I don't know what I'm doing.


	3. Restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I explain lore in a very half-assed manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Summer Vacation kiddos!

_Interesting._

* * *

 

The city guards converged on John with awed murmurings and hushed theories, fervent thanks and praise echoed around the field. Many men and women lay dead, but this night was a victory. A clear and resounding one, one which (unbeknownst to them) would go down in history. Various guards thanked him personally for their lives, which they had marched into this fight thinking were forfeit. John knew that, because he had heard their hushed prayers. They were prayers he was familiar enough with.

The remainder of the night was spent organizing the dead for transport back to the city. Eventually John and Sherlock were more or less escorted back to Dragonsreach by Sergeant Donovan. Their ragged band tumbled into the busy foyer, and John himself quickly found a chair to go boneless in. To say he was exhausted would be an understatement. Someone wordlessly placed a flagon full of water in front of him, which he gulped down like a man dying of thirst.

His tired eyes eventually found the Jarl in the madness that was the hall, and also spotted the man called Sherlock. They had their heads bent over a book and were speaking hurriedly in urgent tones. Honestly, John couldn't care less what was being said, he was about to fall asleep with his face pressed against the Jarl's splintery table.

No such luck where the nap was involved, though.

A hand found his shoulder, shaking him urgently. John grunted, hoping to ward the attacker off. "My good man, I must speak with you," said the imperious voice of the Jarl.

Snuffling and grumbling, John sat up and regarded the Jarl blearily. The sun would be rising soon and he had set out at dawn the morning prior. Gods, he needed sleep.

"I must offer you my most earnest gratitude. From what I hear, you have saved my city from a great deal of peril," the Jarl stood before him, walking stick tapping the floor whenever John looked as if he might nod off again. The hooded Sherlock hovered close, open book in his slender hands, watching the warrior closely. John sleepily noticed his left hand was bandaged for what looked like burns.

"Mm, don' mention it," waved off John. Read as: leave me alone so I can sleep on your table.

Sherlock may have cracked a smile, hidden behind his book.

"Well, dragon slaying is no thankless job, not when it comes to my own city," the Jarl went on. "You are welcome to Whiterun at any time, and I shall pass on to the citizens that you are to be hailed as Whiterun's hero and Thane. It is the highest honor in my power to give. I shall begin looking for a suitable housecarl, if you'll have one. You may rest in the guest chambers upstairs if you wish."

John's previously sluggish mind was suddenly reeling. Thane? Housecarl? What just happened? Was he just promoted to a member of the nobility in a city he'd stumbled into literally this morning? What was his life now? "I- I, _Sire,_ with all due respect," stammered John, only  to be cut off.

"All things considered, we can do away with the titles," smirked the Jarl with brow raised almost mockingly. "You may call me Mycroft, and I may call you...?"

All through this, John had never given his name? Thoroughly derailed, he hastily spat out, "John. John Watson."

Jarl Mycroft grasped his forearm in a surprisingly Nordic fashioned greeting. The ginger man peered around the busy room with idle curiosity. People rushed to and fro in the wake of the night's madness, some celebrating a close victory, others scrambling over the question on everyone's minds:

"Why are the dragons coming back?" John found himself wondering aloud. Dragons, as everyone knew, had been extinct for hundreds of years. Every single one of them had been killed and buried long ago.

"Leave that answer to me," chimed Sherlock, who scratched away in his notebook.

John returned his critical eyes to the hooded man, raising an eyebrow. "And just who are you, if I may ask?" asked John, clasping his fingers together and wetting his bottom lip.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his book. With a long-suffering eye roll, the Jarl was the one who spoke up.

"My brother, and court magician, Sherlock. He handles all the court's questions of the arcane, and organizes solutions to magical problems addressed to the court."

"As if you couldn't handle it yourself, _brother_ _dear,”_ muttered the acerbic Sherlock.

"You know how I feel about legwork," retorted Mycroft icily.

John looked between the brothers in shock before settling his gaze on the apparent younger of the two. "You do magic?" he found himself asking in surprise.

Sherlock seethed visibly. "I am a mage, yes. Probably the best you'll ever meet." His quill scratched into the page with sudden force.

"Besides myself," interjected a smug Mycroft.

"That remains to be _seen,_ " hissed Sherlock, obviously worked up. "Seeing as you likely haven't cast a spell since graduating Winterhold."

"Magelight is very helpful for raiding the kitchen at night," murmured Mycroft with a smirk.

"For sweetrolls, no doubt!"

John was starting to see a bit of a rivalry there, and his head was starting to pound. With a sigh, he tipped back his flagon of water and drained its contents. He might start asking for something stronger if these brothers didn't let him to go bed...

Suddenly, a loud shout shook the very foundation of Dragonsreach. A thunderous word in a strange language, loud enough to rattle the cups on the table. The room fell silent as the reverberations of the powerful sound echoed off the stone walls. The muttering ruckus became quiet, before a wave of hushed, surprised murmuring rose in wake of it.

John furrowed his brows and looked up to the Jarl and his brother, only to find the two of them already staring straight at him. He looked between them confusedly, however this was hardly the strangest thing that had happened today. "What... was that?" John asked almost tiredly.

"You honestly don't know?" spat an incredulous Sherlock. He looked exasperated at John's own bafflement.

Helplessly John turned his gaze to the Jarl, praying he would explain better than his frustrating brother.

"It came from the mountains, to the south east... If the legends are true... it is likely the Greybeards, summoning the Dragonborn," spelled out Mycroft, hands folded over his walking stick; the picture of calm.

John knew he was going to regret his next question. "Dragon...born? What's that?"

John didn't even deign to look to see what Sherlock's reaction was, but he heard the mage's dramatic groan of exasperation.

Mycroft explained it gracefully for him. "The Dragonborn, or Dovahkiin, is a mortal gifted by Akatosh with the soul and blood of a dragon. There is only one Dragonborn in a single era, and it is exceedingly rare for there to be more than one in Tamriel at one time."

 _Dovahkiin_ sounded a bit like the shouted word in the strange language. "Oh," murmured John in acknowledgement. As if he actually understood.

"Not to mention," grumbled Sherlock, "they have the ability to consume the souls of dragons they have killed."

Realization made John's eyes go wide. " _Oh..._ " blurted the shell-shocked John. "You both think that _I_...?" He trailed off.

"All signs point to _yes,"_ answered Mycroft with a sense of smugness creeping into his voice once again. "And they are likely summoning you to High Hrothgar. The Greybeards suspect the Dragonborn has returned to Tamriel, and if you are indeed the one, they will be the ones who can confirm it." Mycroft's eyes became flinty and commanding. "I would urge you to go to the Greybeards. They can be found at the Throat of the World, atop the highest mountain in Skyrim. You will learn far more from them than you will from myself."

John blinked, taking it all in. He had so many questions. Had really consumed a Dragon's soul? Why did he feel like there was some sort of power within him waiting to be unlocked? What was his purpose? Was there something these two knowledgeable brothers weren't telling him?

Before he could voice any of his inquiries, Sherlock scoffed.

"Great, more brutish warriors to get the job done," hissed Sherlock with surprising bitterness and judgment.

John found himself offended by the other man's assumption. While Sherlock's arrogance would probably be enough to drive a lesser man into a rage, John was more irritated by the distain he seemed to have for warriors. Suddenly, a thought occurred to John. In retaliation, he raised his outstretched hand toward Sherlock, and in an instant bright golden-white light burst forth. Shimmering snakes of light ensnared the shocked mage, and a sweet sound like wind chimes filled the air. The magic light threw light over Sherlock's sharp features, making them look impossibly sharper. Wide eyed, the young man raised his injured hand to his face to find the skin smooth and clear. All trace of pain and swelling chased away.

And the mage could only gawk in poorly-concealed shock at the Nord, who stared at him in a challenge. Daring him to think him some meat-headed axe-swinging grunt. Sherlock's shoulders slumped in a sort of defeat.

"You're a healer... of course you are."

"A healer _and_ a soldier. Technically you weren't _wrong._ " Yes, Sherlock was incredibly wrong. And it pissed John off to the point he had to do something about it. It shouldn't come as much of a surprise, he supposed. He sometimes had a shorter fuse when it came to certain people.

"So do you know any other magic?" wondered Sherlock, clear interest in his crystal blue eyes.

"Not much other than healing and wards," John muttered briefly, tiredness suddenly bogging down his brain once more, now that the excitement was over.

"Sherlock, I believe you ought to save the interrogation for later. Let this poor man rest," Jarl Mycroft cut in easily.

Relieved, John stood and let himself be led upstairs to an empty room. Finally, he could kick off his boots and _sleep_. He left his weapons by the bed, within easy reach, and shucked off what armor he didn't want to sleep in. Finally he settled in, and had to turn away from the window.

There was something seriously depressing about seeing the first light of dawn creep over the horizon  when you hadn't slept all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously fighting the urge to be like, "And then John went into Godmode. Then he made a chicken grow 10 times its size. Then he gave Sherlock a sex change. Then he spawned 500 sweetrolls on Mycroft's bed."
> 
> Edit:  
> -makes stupid mistakes-  
> -finds them a month later-  
> -groans-


	4. Alchemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alchemy skills and a secretly welcome tagalong.

_You're a healer... of course you are._

* * *

 

John awoke late that afternoon with a sore shoulder and a crick in his back. With a mighty sigh, he dragged himself from the mattress and washed up with the basin of clean water left out for him. He managed to scrub three days of grit out of his hair and as a result, felt amazing. He swapped his leather armor for his... clean-ish tunic. Well, the tunic and slops were what he'd been forced to wear when he'd been captured by the Imperials. He'd fled Helgen in these rags... But he'd washed them in the river at Riverwood, and had since used them to wrap medicinal herbs and flowers in. They weren't the best, but they smelled pretty nice at this point.

Feeling cleaner than he had in a fortnight, John shoved his feet into his boots and tromped down the hallway. He found the Jarl standing before a strategy table, flags springing out of the map spread over it.

"Ah, John. I see you're up," commented Mycroft distractedly. "I've been considering candidates for your housecarl. I was thinking of that Sergeant of the guard... Donovan. What was her name? Salla? Sally?"

John rolled his shoulder at the joint, trying to work the stiffness out of it. "What _exactly_ is a housecarl, if you don't mind me asking?" Discreetly, he scanned the map, noting the red and blue markers scattered over Skyrim.

"A housecarl is a bodyguard. They will guard you, your home, your family, and assets with their life," explained Mycroft, whilst he ran his thumb over his chin. Barely paying attention.

"Ah," John floundered. "May I respectfully decline? I don't need a bodyguard."

The Jarl looked up in faint surprise. "Are you quite sure? It is within my authority."

"I am, thank you," John fiddled idly with a blue marker. He was absolutely ravenous. There were kitchens around here somewhere, he knew it. It likely wasn't around any meal time but some bread might be laying about...

The Jarl turned his attention back to the table. "Very well, then. Salla is saved from bodyguard duty."

John chuckled. "I'm sure she'd be thankful of that."

Mycroft hummed in confirmation. John took it as his cue to escape, which he did with a respectful nod. Ruffling his hand through his wet hair, he eventually found the kitchen and was thoroughly doted on by the cook. He left with a bag of bread, cheese, and grilled meat.

From the great hall, he could see into the court magician's work room. It was made obvious by the enchanting table and alchemy supplies utterly _scattered_ on every horizontal surface. Curious, if a bit tentative, John wandered over to peek inside. One of the first things he found was a human skull on a shelf. Not too uncommon, but interesting enough to find. It seemed the mage was allowed free range of this space, and clutter dominated the entirety of the room.

" _Can I help you?_ " boomed a deep voice abruptly.

John _may_ have jumped a little bit. He tried to play it off with a clear of his throat and a scratch of his damp head. "Ahem, I was just wondering..." John drew a blank, then remembered suddenly, "if you'd come to any conclusions about that stone I found."

Sherlock met his eyes, and John found himself taking a step back with his arms folded over his chest. The mage looked manic with glee or excitement, making his bright blue eyes glow. His hood had been thrown down, and riotous dark curls haloed his head. Without the cloth of the hood shadowing his features, Sherlock was clearly attractive... In a strange, otherworldly way, John supposed. Maybe slightly elvish, but more Breton than anything.

"Ah, yes, the Dragonstone," declared Sherlock. "You were right to bring it here, I'm the only one who could have figured it out so quickly. My brother has already sent some men to investigate my leading theory." He moved across the room with long-legged grace, rifling through the contents of the table.

"And what is your leading theory," asked John, glancing curiously over the length of the table.

"Now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Sherlock teased, glancing up at John through his lashes.

John swallowed uneasily. "So I drag the thing all the way over here, and you won't tell me what it is? Or what it's for?" His fingers find and fiddle with a blue, cone-shaped flower.

Sherlock plucked the pretty floral thing from his hand. "I'm sure you'll find out in due time," he told him with confidence. "Also, this is a Deathbell. They're poisonous."

John frowned at the pretty thing. "Shame," he muttered. He found an orange flower and fiddled with it instead.

"You do much alchemy?" asked Sherlock knowingly.

John wondered if he should even bother answering. "Mainly-" he began.

"Medicinal," Sherlock finished with his back turned to him.

John grinned behind his hand while rubbing his chin. "You seemed to know a lot about me, before." Yesterday? Was it yesterday?

"And you never did answer my question," prompted Sherlock, who was intently mixing some kind of concoction. He meant the Imperial and Stormcloak question.

"How _did_ you know?" John deflected quickly.

Sherlock turned to face him, a smoking vial in his hand as he scratched something down with a quill. "I didn't know," he stated. "I noticed."

"Noticed how?"

"I look, I see, I think. People think so rarely these days, it's like a magical ability all of its own. I could read your military background through the scars on your hands and your alchemic dabbling through the smell of your tunic. Now, what _did_ you do to be arrested by the Imperials?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him in interest.

John forced himself to stand firm against that penetrating gaze. "Wandered over the wrong border, is all. I wasn't even on the list for execution, not that it mattered much to them."

Sherlock snorted. "Can you imagine? Bumbling Imperials accidentally slaying the Dragonborn in the height of the dragon insurrection." He crumbled up a dry leaf in his slender, unscarred hands and funneled the flakes into the bottle he held.

John watched the mage's ministrations with interest. "That is quite impressive, by the by. Amazing, really."

John had the pleasure of seeing a confused look cross the mage's fair face. "What's amazing?"

"Your noticing thing. Do you do it all the time?" John asked innocently, hands clasped behind his back.

A faint flush could be seen upon Sherlock's high cheekbones. "Deduction," he corrected. "And yes. Quite thrilling at parties. Not that I'm invited to them much." He added a pinch of dust to his vial.

John couldn't help but grin. "Me neither," he admitted honestly. John was sure the faintest blush would show through the mage's fair skin with ridiculous ease. He found himself wanting to test that theory.

When the potion exhaled a cloud of smoke, the mage appeared satisfied. "You know," Sherlock commented, "that limp of yours seems to have left you. Interesting, that."

Shocked, John looked down at his own feet. His leg did not ache, and he could easily bare weight equally between them. Gaping, he looked back up at the mage before him, then back down in awe at his feet.

Sherlock frowned at his glass vial knowingly. "It is not uncommon for supposedly physical injuries to actually be illness of the mind. But your shoulder bothers you. Here, try this brew. It will help." The bottle was suddenly thrust unceremoniously towards his face.

"Oh, well, um," John didn't usually take potions he didn't mix himself. But, well, this was the court mage he was talking about and honestly, his shoulder _was_ bothering him. After swilling it around once and twice, he knocked it back.

And grunted in pain when he felt energy forcibly drained from him. He felt weak, and his knees trembled. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he swayed on his feet.

"Here, take a seat," a hand was guiding him down. "It will wear off, give it a moment."

Groaning at the spinning in his head, he leveled a glare at the mage. "What did you _give me?_ " he growled with what little energy he had left. The walls were shaking. No, spinning.

Sherlock had the grace to look slightly apologetic. "It was an experimental brew... apparently it has side effects." He looked around the table for something, before plucking something small out of a jar. "Here, eat this," he said without preamble, shoving the small thing towards John's face, who was now reasonably suspicious.

John went cross eyed looking at it.

_"That is a **bee**!!"_

* * *

 

John spent one more night in Dragonsreach, and spent the evening dodging Sherlock. John was reasonably wary of anything that was supposedly edible if there was a chance the mage had so much as looked at it. The next morning there was no sign of the mage, and John left after expressing his gratitude to his host. As he made his way down the stone stairs, there was an odd heaviness in his chest. He supposed he wanted to say goodbye to the evil alchemist-mage, at least. There was a chance John wouldn't come back to Dragonsreach, or even survive the harrowing pilgrimage to High Hrothgar.

The thought that he'd never see the confounded mage saddened John a bit, if he was honest.

"There you are," said a now-familiar voice.

John stiffened in shock, his stomach dropping in dread.

"I was wondering when you would catch up, John."

The warrior turned slowly to find the hooded Sherlock approaching him, clearly having come from the markets. John stifled a groan of frustration. " _What_ do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock didn't even look affronted. "My brother mentioned you declined a housecarl, and it would be in poor manners to send the hero of the realm off alone," Sherlock said with mocking innocence.

John stared at him wordlessly, skepticism clear in his face.

Sherlock threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine, the Greybeards are fascinating and I'm using you as an excuse to study them. Besides, I have several leads I must follow up on myself. You can come along if you wish."

John raised his brow in disbelief. " _I_ can come along? With _you?_ " Wasn't John the supposed Dragonborn, hero of the realm and all that?

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud," Sherlock dictated casually.

John sighed dramatically. He had half a mind to tell Sherlock to go find whomever he usually spoke to. Instead he grumbled, "You know we're not going out for a stroll. Are you quite sure you want to climb a mountain?"

Sherlock nodded once, solemnly. "Yes, the 7000 steps. I haven't made that particular pilgrimage yet, but there's no time like the present." The morning sun struck the mage's face just so that his light eyes gleamed with teasing light. His skin looked very pale in the direct sunlight. "Now, John," Sherlock prompted, "if you need anything while we're in town, I suggest you do it now, and quickly. I've much to do, and I can't have you slowing me down."

John threw his hands up in exasperation. "And if you're so busy, why are you sticking around with me?"

"That's the frailty of genius, John," the mage said with a smirk. "It needs an audience."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trash and I don't know what I'm even doing.

**Author's Note:**

> I intended to have this stand alone, but I'm working on expanding it a bit.


End file.
